Life's Rich Pageant
by spark fanfic
Summary: "Carry each his burden. We are strong, despite the years..."


They're not mine

They're not mine. The title's from an R.E.M. song. Feedback is delightful.

Life's Rich Pageant

Violet Spark

spark_fanfic@yahoo.com  
  


****

2021   


  
There's a house in Washington DC, on a quiet street -- two floors and an attic. Inside, a woman has let her hair turn silver, and a man has let what's left of his turn white.   
  
He's lived there almost as long as she has. It's her name on the mortgage, but he's contributed a lot along the way. A decade ago, she mentioned offhand that she was having his name added to the deed. He nodded thoughtfully, and the subject didn't come up again.   
  
Behind the house, there is a small but well-tended garden. She never saw herself as the floral type, but her doctor told her the activity would help stave off arthritis pain. Now she's in love with it; she's proud of every flower. It's a nice place to sit, especially in the early summer, with a glass of iced-tea in her hand. He doesn't usually join her there, but he claimed the kitchen as his domain long ago.   
  
Now and then he tries to draw an analogy between writing and cooking -- something about taking limited ingredients, blending them in different combinations and orders and creating something original. She's not sure she agrees with it, but she's happy to eat what he makes. The kitchen is also where she reads the papers every morning, a habit she's never been able to break. Frequently, she'll quote some article aloud, and that will lead them into a debate. The kitchen is where they argue, and they still enjoy that as much as ever.   
  
They each have their own bedroom, but there is still a healthy amount of lovemaking. When they do sleep together, she still nestles close to him, and he still drapes an arm around her. She doesn't usually sleep alone anyway. Two cats, which have grown up from the kittens he brought home after her old cat died at the formidable age of thirteen, follow her into her bedroom at night, and curl up comfortably on her quilt.   
  
The jewelry box on her dresser has a little of everything, from funky costume pieces she picked up on a whim to the heirlooms her mother left her. The two pieces she likes best are both necklaces: an emerald one that was his gift for her sixtieth (fifty-tenth, she jokes) birthday, and a simple gold one that she wore on a warm night in Virginia twenty-one years ago. She still does work for women's organizations, so there are some nice business-casual suits in her closet, though her wardrobe isn't very elaborate anymore. In the mirror above the dresser, she sees more lines than she used to. It bothers her sometimes, but mostly she believes she's aging gracefully. Though he doesn't often say so, he agrees.   
  
His bedroom doesn't look much different from his old apartment. It's simple, quiet, organized and generally neat. The bed is almost an afterthought; the most important piece of furniture in the room is his desk. He has a page in 'Time' every other week, and reels off the occasional editorial for the Washington Post. She teases him that he's gone over to the dark side. Sometimes he agrees with that, but he still has things to say, and there are only so many places to put them. Yet it feels strange, sometimes, to write these words and not hear them coming from someone else's mouth.   
  
One morning last November, she woke up early and found him sitting at the desk, typing at a delirious speed. She watched him for a moment, then went downstairs and made some coffee. He emerged later for a sandwich, but didn't speak and soon retreated. That night, she fell asleep to his typing, like the sound of rain on a roof. It went on for days. On the fifth afternoon, he came down, dropped the manuscript in front of her on the kitchen table, grabbed his coat and left the house. It was dark when he returned, and she was still there, crying over the last page. She didn't say anything, only reached for him and held him tight. He'll never publish it, but he's glad to know the one book he had in him was, to her, worthwhile.   
  
Their favorite place to make love is the small, sunny guest room just past the top of the stairs. This is not something they tell their guests.   
  
Most of their company comes for dinner. There are old friends and newer ones; people to reminisce with and people that have replaced them. They stay on top of everything that's going on, because Washington is still Washington, and everyone knows that dinner at Toby-and-C.J.'s house is a thing you do. He cooks. She pours the wine. The dining room comes to life. Usually, he's the one to start an argument that would alienate everyone if he weren't who he is. Usually, she's the one who makes sure no one leaves feeling hurt.   
  
After dinner, if the mood is right, the party adjourns to the living room. The group of people that stays for this part of the evening is much smaller. Sam Seaborn makes a point of visiting, when he's in town and not busy with Southern Poverty Law. Sometimes he brings his wife. More often he's alone, but he always talks about her and their children. The oldest, Josie -- Mallory Junior, he calls her sometimes -- is twelve now, and they're all bewildered at the thought of Sam parenting a teenager. It doesn't seem physically possible.   
  
Josh Lyman stops in once a week or so. His grin comes as easily as ever, though there's more of a shadow behind his eyes, and they all know that the failure of his marriage hit him hard. He helped elect another President, three years back, and he's in Leo McGarry's old office. There are differences of opinion as to whether "his guy" is a liability or a credit to the Democratic Party, but there's a definite consensus that he's no Josiah Bartlet.   
  
No one ever has been. No one ever will be again. And when any of them have an occasion to be in New England, there's a grave they never miss visiting.   
  
Leo himself doesn't come down much. Instead, they go to him in Boston. He's eighty now, but still as fierce and independent and sharp as ever, coming out of his self-proclaimed retirement to phone up Josh and other prominent liberals and explain exactly what they're doing wrong. But he's proud of them, all of them, and he doesn't mind saying so.   
  
Andrea Wyatt drops by the house now and then, with her husband. So does Donna Moss, thin and single and beautiful as ever, though everyone knows she took the divorce even worse than Josh did. There are a few others who stick around, when dinner is done with. The friendships carry on. And after the coffee cools, and the war stories have been told, and everyone is sent home, the couple that lives in the house stays up late and keeps talking. Most of the time, they laugh, because most things are comedy when viewed from here, and she thinks the two of them are the supreme irony. Sometimes things turn more serious. Sometimes they get close to tears.   
  
Their bodies still meet, in the darkness, and still mesh together. They're not as young as they once were, but their kisses are still strong and firm and passionate. And while neither of them would describe this as the great romance of their lives, there is this steadiness, this desire, this trust that time has not disturbed.   
  
There's a box in the attic he doesn't know about, and a drawer in his room that is kept locked. This is exactly as it should be.   
  
The frenetic pace they lived at, when they were in their forties, has long since been left behind. This amuses her; the world is a funny place. He's not always with her. There are times when he senses something ticking away, can feel it in his bones, beyond his considerable powers of articulation. He doesn't like to think about it, but sometimes he does anyway, and against his will he wonders how much of their lives are already behind them, how fast the light is dying.   
  
The dark moods come, but they do not dominate, and they never last. His smile isn't as rare as it used to be. And once in a while, when the mood is right, in complete defiance of his doctor, he'll pour a glass of bourbon and light himself a cigar. There's a dodderingly antiquated stereo in the guest room, which still functions well enough to play an old R&B song.   
  
There's a house in Washington DC, on a quiet street -- two floors and an attic. Inside, a woman has let her hair turn silver, and a man has let what's left of his turn white.   
  
Sometimes, she still dances for him. 


End file.
